Young Girls
by metacognitive
Summary: When's the last you fell in love, Angel?


_a companion to "The Long Haul", aka let's talk about the shepards. warnings to consider: consensual underage relationships / drug use / discussions of abusive experiences, etc. period typical attitudes / language is not a reflection of the author (me). ps this one is gay._  
_title from the song of the same name by princess nokia. i still own nothing._

* * *

The call about Curly comes in on a Friday. You're at home because it's the summer, and your husband's in jail, and lately your mama's trying to do better, even if she keeps saying your name in Spanish and not with the soft 'g' sound you've preferred since you were five. That was the first time anyone ever called you a Spic—when you said it Ángela and not Angel, your r's rolled perfectly in that pretty pink mouth of yours, Spanish so good no one could even pretend you didn't have a little Mexican in you. Not like later, when you stopped going out in the sun and only ever answered your mother in English and flat out refused to be sent to your mama's favorite city.

You ain't been Mexican in years. Didn't even get married in a church, marched down to the courthouse with that no good ugly husband of yours and signed your life away like you were any other girl than the one you are. It's enough to make you sick.

You're the only one home. Your mama's out at work, her husband off with whoever it is he was cheating on her with this month, Tim out with his girl, probably. He's never been one to like to keep you in on the know, and your tendency for the melodramatic means the two of you have gotten into more than one screaming match about it. Doesn't matter. Tim's always made it up to you with decent jewelry or enough cash to get you through the week. Liquor when he's in the mood for it, not that he likes the hard stuff all that much.

The only reason you don't let it ring and ring and ring is 'cause you, too, are awaiting a certain kind of delivery. Tim don't like you in his stash—used to lose his temper when Curly would steal _mota_ to get high with Ponyboy Curtis and that girl of his, used to cuff Curly by his ears like he was a dog who could be taught something. Tim's always been too soft with the two of you. Let you run wild when he wasn't trying to play house, torn between running your dead daddy's business and playing at fatherhood himself. Love's the worst kind of weakness, even if the three of you would kill for each other. Hell, maybe that's what gets Curly through the jungle.

But when you answer the phone it's not that dealer from Brumly that used to make passes at you in front of Tim, up until Tim hauled him out back and kicked his face in, nose ruined and not half as good looking as he used to be. When you pick up it's not your dealer but some bastard who works for the army, who tells you your brother is dead and says shit like, _On behalf of a grateful nation…_

Fuck this country, you don't say. You don't say a lot of things. Hum and mutter at the right places, instead, then put the phone on its cradle and sit down and scream like you've never screamed before, not the first time your husband came at you drunk, not the morning after Bryon Douglas cut your hair off, not the night you found out they gutted your daddy like he was a piece of meat.

Tim finds you like that, rocking back and forth with your hands in your hair and at first he doesn't know what to do.

_What did he do to you_, he says, thinking it was your mama's husband, the final time he tried to grab at you, your elbow against his eye socket and the way Tim threw him through the backdoor good enough incentive not to try it again. You were thirteen. Tim grabs you up by your arms, now, tries getting your hands out of your hair, but your fingers are knotted good in the short strands. You could never bring yourself to grow it out again—say it's because you look just as good with a bob, like you don't sometimes wake up with the feel of someone holding it tight and shearing it off, slowly, painfully. _Angela, what the fuck did he do to you_.

Tim only ever sounds scared when he thinks something's happened to you and Curly. Before they shipped out Curly—dead Curly, dead Carlos, who's coming back in a box they can't even open, and ain't that going to break their good old Catholic mother's heart—he spent weeks sounding like that. Like a tremor was hiding just under his tongue. Like he was on a tightrope, trying to keep Curly alive.

You've seen him covered in blood—sometimes his own—and with his nose broken and with an open gash against his skin that you had to pour good mezcal over, Curly blubbering in the corner thinking he got his big brother killed. But nothing gets you like what Tim looks like with his tiger eyes big and wide, trying to find out who hurt you so he can kill them instead.

Finally he shakes you. Back and forth, like a doll. Like you're going forward and backward in time—back, you're okay—forward, Curly's dead—back, forward, back—

_The army called_, you finally manage. Let your hands drop, lean up against Tim's chest like he can still protect you, like he didn't lose that power the second you signed your name next to your husband's, the second Curly said no to Guadalajara. Dig your fingers into his shirt, mouth against the fabric, say, _He's dead. He's dead, Tim, he's dead._

Tim lets go of you, and when he takes a step back you let yourself fall to the floor. He doesn't even try to catch you. You can't blame him. You fold yourself up, keep saying the words, _He's dead, he's dead, he's dead._ Like saying it will make it make sense, like a boy dying in a jungle makes sense.

_Who called you_, Tim says, and when you can't answer gets loud, _Who called you, Angela._

_Some Colonel_, you finally manage, shoulders hunched, hands at your own elbows, staring at the stained carpet and trying to figure out who ruined it first. Was it when you spilled menudo or when Curly busted his head on the corner of the coffee table. Did you break your mama's vase the first time and have Curly glue it back together, dead Uncle Teo laughing at you both from the kitchen, or was it Curly and Tim playing rough in the spring. Most of the men you've loved are dead, so where the fuck does that leave Tim?

_What else did they say._

_I don't know_, you say.

_What do you mean you don't know_, Tim says, _you fucking talked to them, Angel, what else did they tell you._

_I don't know_, you say again. _I don't know, okay, I don't know, they told me not to open the casket, they said he was dead, I don't know what else could fucking matter to you, Tim_.

_When is he getting home?_ he demands, something like inflection finally in his tone, and it makes you look up. Tim's always spoken real flat. On her good days your mama would say he was just like your daddy. On her bad days she says the same thing.

You don't say anything, just stare at Tim, and then he swears and kicks the coffee table Curly hit himself on a hundred times. He moves into the kitchen and you say nothing, just stare at that same coffee table and wonder if it hurt when Curly died.

* * *

Everyone shows up to the funeral. Hoodlums you barely recognize, girls he didn't like. Act like they loved Curly and thought he was going to make it, like they hadn't sucked their teeth in when his letter came and watched him run through the city like he was fixing to burn it all down. Like they didn't think he would have deserved it, if someone had killed him on Tiber Street and not in Vietnam.

Your mama's a wreck the whole time, cries into a handkerchief you didn't even realize she owned. Tim's in the one good set of dress clothes he owns, an old suit that belonged to Teo—it shows. Double pleated, too nice to be something Maria would have picked up for him. Made in Mexico, like Teo and your mama, like the country's going to keep its hands on you like the US tries to, like the US did with Curly and your daddy and all the dead men you love.

That husband of yours could have gotten a pass to come with you, you know it. But you stand up there at the front of the pulpit at Our Lady, with your crying mother and a stone-faced Tim and a stepfather you can't stand, all by yourself and surrounded by all the family you have left that matters. Mama's brothers down in Jalisco want her back, Tim says. Wants all of them save that husband of hers to pack up, ship out, before the government grabs Tim on a second-thought and you're left alone with nobody to protect you.

Like you can't protect yourself. Like there ain't a knife under your pillow that's been there near five years. The preacher says something about suffering in this life so the next one is better and you want to scream again like you did the day they called you. Curly don't believe in none of this shit, not as far as you know. Doesn't matter if he did or didn't, because he's dead now, and the thought of him and your daddy being reunited doesn't comfort you.

The Curtis boys come by, dressed nice as they can afford to, and you try not to look at Ponyboy. Remember how he didn't want you, remember how Curly must have loved him like blood, remember the way the way he's only ever looked at you in pity. They offer their condolences to Tim, afterwards, while you try and get your mother somewhere private where she can cry without embarrassing you.

Those fucking Bernal girls are around, too. You can't stand either of them. Tim acting like he wanted Lisa when it was Isaiah Solis making noise, Curtis' crew too stupid to realize that it was a Shepard vs Brumly issue, nothing to do with none of their ugly friends. Tim, who spent so long trying to keep drugs out of their house only to end up dealing anyway and then sign his life's work over to Solis anyway. There's Vicky Bernal, who might've loved Curly and who might've been loved back. Who acts like she don't know anything, like she ain't cunning enough to play you all for fools. You can't fucking stand her.

Not just 'cause she's as pretty as you are. Not just 'cause you might as well be two peas in a pod. She plays things too fast and loose, thinks she's invincible. That's what gets you. You've always been cocky but you never once thought someone couldn't knock you down. You just thought you'd see it coming, that's all. If you'd seen it coming you would have kept from your now-husband the second you saw him, wily and wild and one of Tim's best up until the second he married you. Vic Bernal thinks no one in the world can touch her and that's why she ran around with your brother, flirting with cashiers and smoking all of Tim's weed. Vic wants to be bigger than anyone in this town, just like Curly did. You want to wring her throat for being so much like him, for reminding you of what he could've been.

You go home that night and drink yourself sick, wake up flat on your stomach in the kitchen and the house empty around you. You reek. You want Tim. You want Curly back. You want your husband to not be your husband or at the very least be one who would hold your hair back while you're sick in the toilet. You wish you were fucking dead, buried in the same unopened casket as Curly, and you wish you had the guts to do it.

The next week passes by like this. None of your girls come to see you, your husband don't call. Tim carries you to your room, sometimes, frames your body with pillows so you don't die in your sleep. You resent him for it. Your mother spends her nights with a bottle again, that husband of hers taking all her money like usual, letting her cry over dinner and ignoring her for the most part. Nothing's new.

Two weeks after they call you to say Curly's dead, Vicky Bernal shows up on your doorstep. You just opened your first beer of the night. Tim's out in Brumly to piss off Solis or maybe work, a little electric company that Solis, surprise, surprise, has his grip on. That's all Tim seems to do lately—try and stack his money like he's got a reason to need it. Won't give any to you when you ask for it, drunk and wanting another drink. Shakes you a little sometimes when he's trying to get your attention, like it could wake you up, then just shakes his head at you like you've disappointed him. Like you could get any lower than where you already are.

_Hitting the bottle like your old lady, huh_, Bernal says, quirking an eyebrow at you.

_What the fuck do you want_. You try so hard to sound like Tim. You used to be good at it.

_When's your husband out_, she asks.

_Nunna your fucking business._

_You mad at me?_ Bernal says, like you've ever liked her.

_What do you want_, you say again. You're losing what little patience you were born with.

_I ain't seen you around,_ Bernal says. _Usually you like to show up where I do, like you're tryna prove something. 's throwing me off._

You stare at her. She shrugs a shoulder—bare, in a tube-top, skirt that reaches her knees for once. She looks like summer, with her curls wild as they usually are, like no one ever taught her how to look like a lady. _You_ know how to look like one; you just don't like to.

She flashes her teeth. Slurs her words together on purpose, says, _Whatcha doing tonight?_

You raise the bottle at her. Smart girls would recognize the threat.

_Lemme take you out_, she says, like you're friends. Like she's about to treat you. _I'll treat you._

_You kidding me?_ you say. You can't help it—let your emotions spill into your words. Try as you do you can never keep them out for too long.

_C'mon_, says Bernal. _I know you need to get out of here._

_You don't know shit about me._

_If Curly were here he'd say the same thing_, she says, and it makes all the air get caught up in your lungs. No one's said his name since the funeral. Not Curly or Carlos or Mijo, like your mama always says. Said. Makes your head spin. Bernal stares at you, choking on nothing, and says, _Let's go, Angel_, as you let her take the bottle from you.

* * *

Bernal gets you drunk and gets you home in one piece. Holds your hair back when you throw up in the kitchen sink, makes you drink a bit of lemon water before tucking you into bed like Tim does—bracketed by pillows, lying on your side. Before you pass out you hear her moving downstairs, real quiet-like, water running in the kitchen.

She didn't take you to the Dingo, took you to Joe's instead. Empty 'cause it was Friday and everyone else was looking for summer action. Meant that no one looked at you for too long, even though you were dead Curly Shepard's kid sister, _the one who got married, remember? Her man's in jail now_. She paid for a salad you only picked at and fried chicken for herself.

You don't _do_ awkward. Never have. But you sat, quiet for once, just watching her, as she talked about that older sister of hers and that car accident she got into and how she missed the car that got wrecked in the process. You told her to shut up at one point and she just grinned, wolfish. Maybe that's why you never liked the Bernals. Bitches through and through, you think, drunk and hysterical, the two of them living in a dog eat dog world when you and your brothers all got eyes like a different kind of predator.

Afterwards she drove the two of you to Buck's in a car you didn't recognize. It was a Camaro, but not black like Tim's. Curly loved that damn car. It's there that she started buying you drinks, and who were you to say no? That was your original plan for the night, after all. By then you were starting to forget why you let Bernal take you out, that Shepard temper acting up. Lucky for everyone that after several bottles you began remembering.

Curly wasn't a drinker. Liked to light up a lot, same as Bernal. Both those girls got addictive personalities, after all. Curly used to spend weekends and school breaks baked outta his mind, no matter what your mama used to say and the fact that he never dropped outta school meaning he still had to work to pass his classes. That in particular is enough to make you feel proud. You, too, ain't taken the chance to drop out yet, even if you think about it a lot. Your mama always said your daddy wanted you all to finish, and if you drop out now you'll be the odd one out. Makes you think you're a lot like your brothers.

When you looked to Bernal you thought you saw something sad in her. It threw you off. You've never seen either of those girls look out of place, never seen them hesitate for even a second, like they were ten steps ahead of everyone else every time. It drove you crazy, when Curly was still running around with her. But you ain't never seen them show weakness, kinda like how you've only seen Curly and Tim show it around you.

You said, _Curly'd kill us both if he were here_, and she had raised her own drink and said, _Let's drink to that then_, smile looking faked for once, and after that it came spilling out. Not in a way that made sense, of course, but you didn't really think it mattered.

Truth of the matter is, you don't think you're ever going to get over this. You were young enough when your daddy died that you didn't have a choice. But you and Curly and Tim, it's always been the three of you against the world. Tim tried to keep you outta trouble but like Curly, you went looking for it often enough that he had no choice but to teach what he thought you needed to know. You can throw a punch, handle a heater, talk smarter than you should—even when it earns you a smack from Tim or your mama or that damned husband. You're as much yourself as you are Tim or Curly. Maybe that's why it hurts so bad, knowing Curly's six feet under.

The two of you looked the most alike, no matter that everyone thought he was Tim's mini-mi. That's bullshit. Barely two years apart, you could have been twins. Practically were, the way you wreaking havoc all around Tulsa—him with Tim, you with whoever you wanted. If it were up to you it would have only ever been the three of you running the city.

_That's how it's meant to be_, you told Bernal, like she had any idea. Her helping Curly out sometimes never counted. Her sister fucking some wannabe mafioso never counted. Her daddy working for the sindicatos, once upon a time, that never counted. There's no one like the Shepards. Curly never let anyone forget it, so now it's time for you to do it for him. Bernal hadn't said anything.

You said, _Do you even fucking miss him?_, remembering the way the two of them used to fight and fuck wherever it was most convenient.

She looked at you, haunted. Almost enough to make you want to take it back, or take a shot, or walk your drunk self back home. _Yeah_, she said. _I_ _do_.

You took a shot then. Tequila, like your daddy used to like. Funny that your mama ain't a big fan, drinks wine and when that runs out breaks out the good mezcal, same bottle you use to sterilize your idiot brothers' wounds.

_Did you love him_, you asked.

_It wasn't like that_, she said.

_Bullshit._

_It wasn't._

_I think he loved you_, you said. Felt all those drinks all at once, Bernal a blurry shape, nothing but dark eyes and a full mouth. _I think you're the only girl he ever wanted that he never really had._

_Oh?_ she said, eyebrow up like she practiced in the mirror.

_He never had you_, you told her. This is the one part of the night you won't remember. _Not the way he should've, if you were gonna be his girl. You've never been nobody's girl. Don't think you ever will._

_You know me that well, huh, Angel_, said Bernal.

_You 'n' I gotta lot in common_, you told her, and then, _take me home now, I'm done, I'm done_, because you could feel the tears coming and it was bad enough to realize she was going to see it.

So she got you home and got you cleaned up and in the morning you don't remember the way she looked like she knew you were right, when you said she'd never belonged to anybody.

* * *

June gives way to July and you stop drinking as much. See too much of your mother on your face when you look in the mirror, hungover every morning. You look almost as much like your mother as Curly did. Doesn't help that you all have your father's eyes, and every time you look at Tim you want to flinch.

He's still working what could be considered overtime. Doesn't even bring the money home, anymore. Touches your head with what you could describe gentleness, if you weren't a Shepard and he weren't, too, when he realizes you ain't hitting the bottle every night. Most days you don't even think of dying.

Your old girls come sniffing around, like you're good company again. As if you ever were, and you tell them to get lost, you got family business to attend to, see you all in August. You can tell they feel guilty, about Curly being dead or refusing to acknowledge it or maybe some other reason you're not willing to suss out. Your husband starts calling for money again and you start thinking about what it means that you're going to live and die in Oklahoma.

The only person who comes to see you is Bernal. You still don't know why.

She treats you to dinner sometimes, buys you drinks at Buck's, too. Sometimes you watch her hustle Eastside hoods at pool, watch the way she touches her hair and fixes her tiny skirts and pretends like she can't play it right. As if she don't run around with the Brumly crew in her spare time like she always has, save for the couple months Curly managed to keep her on his arm. It's not like Solis' crowd don't get along with Tim's, anyway. All it means is that Bernal knows a helluva lot more than it looks like she does, and she plays it up like a pro. If it were anyone else you'd be impressed.

Since it's Bernal, you try not to let it piss you off.

On the Fourth you find yourself home alone. It's a Saturday, so the city's probably bustling, parties and barbecues and all sorts of festivities in the works. Tim's with his _suegro_, no doubt trying to convince him to let him marry his only daughter. You know better than to ask if he'll be home. Your mama, meanwhile, manages to wrangle her husband to some event at Our Lady. You figure he must be in between mistresses.

She tries getting you to join her but you lock yourself in your room instead, sprawl on the floor like you're a body just waiting to be found. Eventually they leave and you stay there, staring at the ceiling and remembering that once it was painted the palest blue imaginable, white stars just barely visible. Your daddy had painted them for you, since the room used to be Curly's up until you were walking. All the pieces of your father in this house have been erased, 'cept for the wedding picture in the hallway that your stepdaddy keeps trying to break.

Spineless as your mama is she won't let him. You've always known she loved your daddy best out of anyone.

Like she's been doing for weeks now, Bernal knocks on your front door, waits for you to come downstairs. Normally you just follow her out, but she's got a six pack in one hand, so you figure she's trying to avoid the July crowds, too.

_It's always open_, you tell her. Not 'cause you want her to come by, but because it's true. The lock stopped working sometime between Teo dying and your mama remarrying. Nobody's ever bothered trying to fix it, and folks know better to cross Tim, besides. You take a beer and open it on the table, knowing it riles your mother up to see the marks. It's been years since you last thought about being considerate.

Bernal grabs one for herself, pops the top off at the sink, and then follows you upstairs. You know Curly used to bring her by, find yourself relieved that it was only ever when no one was home. He had a fair share of girls before he left—nothing like Tim, who you swear has to have a kid out there somewhere, most likely in Mexico—but Bernal was the only one he ever brought home. Not to meet your mama, of course. More like he knew Bernal wouldn't pretend she was suddenly uppity, like some girls liked to pretend. She talks a lot of shit but you know that she don't come from anything worth talking about, either. Part of you appreciates it, suddenly.

Your room's messier than your mama likes it but that doesn't mean much. There's space for Bernal to sit on the bed or the floor, but she's smart enough to know she should ask first. Sits herself down against your closet door, instead, lets her eyes roam the room like she's been curious for ages. The walls and ceiling are the same washed out gray as the rest of the bedrooms, painted when your stepdaddy first moved in and was still pretending he wasn't a no good ain't shit hoodlum like the rest of y'all. Sometimes it makes you laugh.

The two of you sit in silence for what feels like ages. You're at the foot of your bed, one leg crossed over the other, Bernal picking at the label on the bottle and pretending like she doesn't want to talk your ear off like she always does. Must be why she has such a big mouth.

_What are you doing here_, you finally say.

She shrugs. _We don't really celebrate the Fourth._

'_Course not_, you say. _You're more of a wetback than I am._

_You a wetback now?_ she asks. _Last I heard you were still pretending you didn't speak Spanish. Half expected the church service to be at Holy Family._

_You think anyone on this side'a town can afford that?_ you say. Don't mean to inflect the sentence like a question. You've been trying to do better, walk and talk and be like Tim. You're still out of practice.

_You and Curly've spent a long time trying to pretend you ain't Mexican_, Bernal says, _but you're the only one who could'a gotten away with it, Angel. Who ain't gonna question a Carlos, huh? A Timoteo? Who'd y'all think you were kidding?_

_Didn't matter_, you say, voice flat again. _Why you think he went by Curly, huh. It wasn't just the hair._

_I'm surprised your mama ain't call him Chino_, she says, leaning up against the closet door. _Don't see why you're so mad you speak Spanish, anyway. I can't talk to none of my aunts, can't say anything when Lisa talks shit._

_You understand it, don't you?_

_And?_ she says, leaning forward again. She's in hot pants. All that leg on display. _That don't do shit for me. I cross the border and they call me gabacha._

_I ain't heard that one._

_The Chicanos like it_, she says. _You one'a them, Angel? Lisa's all over it._

_Your sister goes looking for trouble_, you tell her. _Seems like she misses all the action Tommy used to get her._

_She don't miss anything about Tommy_, she says, but you both know that's a lie. There's something about men who hurt you, something that never gets out from under her skin. Part of you's going to love Bryon for the rest of your life and nothing you do will ever cut it out. Lisa Bernal, for all that she entertains a few Eastside boys, probably won't ever get the taste of Tommy Ochoa out from behind her teeth, no matter how long he's been dead.

Then she says, _Doesn't matter what you wanna be, honey. In this city you're a Mexican and a Shepard, ain't nothing gonna change that_, like you could ever forget it in the first place.

* * *

Bernal doesn't visit you more than once a week. Sometimes she hangs out with the Mathews girl, or slums it in Brumly. She runs around with Curtis more often than not, though, sometimes even his brother, dragging Sodapop to some dance or another whenever the fancy strikes. You tell her, once, that she should figure out which one she wants most. Tell her that Sodapop's her best bet.

_I think Lisa might've slept with him_, she says, making a face, and for once you feel your own screw up, the idea catching you off guard enough that you can't even pretend to be above it all.

_Shut the hell up_, you say. _No way she slept with him, Randle's been after her since y'all moved to town._

_I think they did_, Bernal says, shaking her head like it'll make her forget the thought. _When all that shit was going on with Tommy, but before they killed him. 's not like her and Steve have ever been official, 'sides the summer before he shipped out_. You don't mention that you know how bad Randle was in the aftermath, 'Nam's claws in him like nothing else. Figure that she probably remembers too.

You purse your lips. _Can't imagine Randle being okay with that._

She shrugs. You're both sitting in a Plymouth that Bernal hotwired, showed up to your house grinning with a cheery, _I stole a car, you hungry_? falling from her lipsticked mouth. She says, _That's their problem, ain't it? _and you don't say anything back.

On the way back to your place she says, like the conversation's still fresh, _Lisa ain't had a real boyfriend since Tommy, really._

You make an _mhm_ noise, watch the streets pass you by.

She says, _She's seen a couple people, though_. You glance over at her.

_No boyfriends?_ you say, raise your eyebrow the way she likes to, too.

She looks at you, long, like she's trying to say something without saying something. _Yeah. No boyfriends_. And it takes you forever to figure out why.

Once you finally figure it out, of course, you think you're an idiot. Middle of July means it's hotter than hell, and the heat lingers in the house no matter how many windows you have open. It's that sweet spot in the afternoon when your mama's still at work and her husband's just left. Lately Tim ain't home, even when he should be, his bedroom in the basement empty more often than not. You want to resent him for it; all that talk about how he's gotta stick around for you and Curly gone now that one of you is dead.

You should be nicer to Tim. He's the only one who didn't lose his mind the month after Curly died. You're barely crawling back to what you used to be, and that's not even the _you_ you were before you got married. It's clearer now that Tim's planning something, you just don't know for who. He has a tendency to try and fix your problems without ever talking to you about it. Nothing shocked him like you did when you came back from the courthouse married. A part of him probably smarted like you'd backhanded him. At the time you thought, _Good_, but now, nearing two years married and the man in jail, well. Maybe one day you'll get it.

Bernal comes by with a joint tucked into the pocket of her cutoffs this week, says, _Let's go for a drive_, that same Camaro as the first night she took you out looking waxed and shiny in your trashy neighborhood. The two of you head down to the Dingo, where she flirts with all the boys that recognize you like she doesn't know the two of you have been marked as things belonging to Curly Shepard. Your hair smells sweet and sour, smoke still lingering in the cab of the car even after a few hours have passed since the two of you rolled up all the windows and suffered through the heat to spark up.

Both the Bernal girls got pretty smiles, Lisa more so than Vicky, but the younger one has always been the one to offer them more easily. Stoned she's even worse, laughing at everything, eyelashes fluttering when she ducks her head. You can almost see it, the charm or beauty or whatever it was that made Curly want her the way he did. If someone were to ask you you'd still say you don't like Bernal, but maybe you don't hate her the way you thought you did, before they told you Curly was dead.

Maybe you're just trying to see what he saw. Trying to be as much like him as you can, now that it's just you and Tim and your mama, the last of the Shepards. She follows you upstairs like the first night you let her in, and the two of you end up sprawled on the floor, staring at the gray ceiling. Your shoulders touch, despite the sweat on you both and how the hot air's choking up the second floor.

For some reason you say, _It used to have stars on it, you know. My daddy painted it._

She makes a noise that sounds vaguely affirmative. It makes you want to keep talking. If anyone asks you can always blame the weed.

_This used to be Curly's room_, you continue. _'fore I got bigger._

_He get mad you got it?_

_Nah_, you say. _He wanted to share with Tim. Then he got big, too. Tim took the basement once_—and you cut off. That's when Teo died. If no one talks about Curly then less than nobody talks about Teo. Maybe your uncles in Guadalajara still do, but your mama don't even have a picture of him up in the house, could barely stand to look at Tim in his clothes on the day of the funeral. Shepard women can take a lot, Tim was always saying. But something about death always got to them. You think he might be onto something.

Bernal's the only one willing to say Curly's name out loud, and maybe that's why you can, too.

Bernal says, like she knows you can't speak on it anymore, _Lisa's the one who fixed up my room when we got here. Dad got to right to work and left her to get the house settled. The two of them have been like that as long as I can remember._

You say nothing.

She says, _I don't think he even knows I was running around with your brother._

_The whole town did_, you say. _That's why they watch you the way they do. The way they watch me._

_Can't get rid of a man even if he's dead, huh_, she says. Doesn't sound bothered by it, even. She's lying close to you but not touching. It doesn't keep the heat of her skin from reaching you anyway.

You think of your father and Teo and Curly, blown to bits. Say, _Hell no you can't_, and turn your head towards Bernal. When you do she leans right over and kisses you, mouth like something burning up against your own, and you almost forget how to breathe.

* * *

She shows up the next week like it's nothing. Like you hadn't jerked back and stared at her with eyes nothing like a tiger's, like she hadn't sat up and said, _Catch you later, Angel_, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. Her mouth was soft, you remember. Dry from all that smoking. Hot in the summer heat.

_You wanna smoke again?_ she asks, and you stare at her through the half-broken screen door. She tilts her head at you.

You say, like before, _The door's open_, and turn, not bothering to check if she follows. Tim's downstairs today, and he might threaten to smack you if he catches you smoking, but he probably won't make a scene in front of Bernal. Doesn't hit girls, even if you push him to the edge on the regular, and you wouldn't even hold that against him. You deserve it sometimes. Plus, her big sister's the only one allowed to drag her around by her hair. You'd laughed and laughed when she told you that story, how half the block had watched her get pulled into the house by her ponytail. Even Bernal found it funny, a few years removed from the embarrassment.

Neither of you says anything until you're in your room again. You feel like there're a thousand things happening at once but that's not true. Just you and Bernal, her on your floor and you on your bed like that first night again. Figures she was smart enough to learn when there was little chance of your mama catching you doing whatever it was the two of you chose to get up to. Figures she knew how to keep you from hating her anymore. You wonder if she's doing it for Curly, too.

_What was that, last week_, you say. It's like all that flatness came back, the shock of it a reminder of who you used to be. Tim Shepard raised you—it's about time you acted like it.

She looks at you, says, _What do you mean? _

There's a reason you never liked her, after all.

_You kissed me_, you say, _like that ain't a crime in most places._

_You think they care what girls get up to?_ She has the nerve to smile. _Since when do you care about breaking the law?_

_They kill people for that_, you say. You don't wish you were buried besides Curly, anymore. Not like you used to. Doesn't mean you're looking to be beaten to death.

_Maybe if you flaunt it_, she says. _Or if you dress like them girls my sister hangs out with, in men's clothes. Neither of us do that._

_You're as stupid as everyone thinks you are if you believe that._

_Chicago's different_, she says. _Lisa's whole block is full'a queers._

_Your sister one of them, then? Maybe that's why she went after the pretty Curtis._

_Soda ain't that pretty_, she says. Seems to like the argument, looks like she likes where it's going. _Who cares what anyone thinks. I'm not gonna tell nobody I'm kissing you, you know. Bad enough they know me as your brother's girl. Bad enough they know me at all._

_Who says I want you to kiss me_, you say, like you're not imagining her mouth on yours while you say it. Thinking of the way she smelled like weed, too, the flutter of her eyelashes. Don't even want to touch the idea of your dead brother getting to her first. You hate yourself for not being bothered by it.

She tilts her head, like she always does, like she's a dog. Almost grins again. _Do you?_

You take a deep breath. Watch her watch you.

You say, _Come here_, and she has to bend to kiss you, standing in front of you now, loose-fitting blouse and in a skirt again, short this time, mouth exactly as soft as you remember. She kisses you like she must like to be kissed, mouth like a brand on yours and the slightest promise of teeth.

You've never kissed a girl before. Had good kisses and bad ones, the latter from your husband and the former from the odd boyfriend. This is better, you think, her hands in your hair and yours grasping at her shoulders. No one said you were allowed to do this, because you ain't, but you like most things you want, so you take it anyway.

When she pushes you backwards you let her, when she presses her tongue to yours you let her, when she puts her hands up your shirt you let her. Let them travel under your skirt and hitch your hips up when she rubs the way you like without hesitation.

_Do that again_, you tell her, and she laughs and does it. Listens when you tell her to move and wait and to start over again, _now_. Lets you climb on top of her afterwards and return the favor, like the two of you are reflections of each other, like you've always been two peas in a pod.

She says, afterwards, _You never said if you wanted me to kiss you_, and you roll over so you can look down at her, all long, lean legs and a surprising amount of freckles. You're both down to your underwear. You want to ask her why she's wearing satin in this heat, can guess where she got the money for it.

You say, _We both know I always get what I want_, but still can't bring yourself to smile back at her.

Bernal says, after she pulls her clothes back on and fixes her hair and asks to borrow a lipstick, _You seem almost like your old self, Angel, like the girl you were before that man got to you. 's nice to have you back._

_I never went anywhere._

_Of course not_, she says, and breezes out of the house like she's untouchable.

You feel itchy the rest of the weekend, up until she comes back over. Dream of nothing like usual, even if you feel more well-rested than you have in months. On Friday you go out for drinks earlier than usual and let men buy them for you, sit at the bar and pretend to gossip with the girls you've been casually ignoring all month while Bernal lets someone else think she knows nothing about pool again, their hands on her hips and her lower back, skimming across her skin like they've forgotten she was Curly's first.

You wonder what that means, that you don't feel nothing about getting a taste of what Curly once had. You meant it when you told her you thought he was in love with her. Only issue is neither you or your brothers have learned to love right. Can't manage to get it to stick, can't make it good. Maybe your mother cursed you, or maybe the ability was lost after your daddy died and your uncle did, too. You watch those men put their hands on her and wonder what it is that made her kiss you in the first place, what it was about you that let her know you'd take it further.

You're no queer, after all. Have had men before and after Bryon, even if you can't stand most of them. Can't nobody say you're a dyke, and if they do there'll be hell to pay. Not that anyone will. Someone offers to buy you another drink and you let him, let him whisper in your ear until you get bored of it and shove away from the bar. Bernal seems to get the message without you doing anyone else, and then the two of you are back in your room like the week before, except this time you don't waste your time talking and try some things you haven't done with a girl before.

She's still wearing silk and it makes you crazy. Not a good crazy, but the usual crazy that accompanies Bernal. You wonder if her other friends get that way, too, before you remember that she don't have many. The two of you really are just alike. You light up a joint afterwards, crack the window open so you can at least pretend like you weren't up to trouble and then joining her on the bed, sitting cross-legged this time while she remains stretched out like it's her own bed.

She says, _You need a haircut_, and you touch your hair, nearly to your collarbone. You haven't gotten a trim in months, probably. Before the news hit.

You shrug. Say, like you've been wanting to all night, _Why'd you kiss me, Bernal_. You like the way you sound, voice a little rough from smoking. Almost like you could be like your brother.

_Didn't have a reason not to_, she says. _'sides, what man's gonna want me now? Last one I had was your brother. Don't nobody want a dead soldier's girl._

_You want a man, then?_

_Nah_, she says. You know she's lying.

You take the spiff back, inhale deeply. Smoke trails from your mouth like a good party trick. You say, _Curtis ain't ever going to want you, Vicky_. You think it might be the first time you've ever said her name. You watch her expression twist up.

That's her problem, you think. All her emotions show on her face. Good, bad, in between. She's a good actress but she's not good enough.

_I know that_, she says. She's probably telling the truth but she's like you, which means she's lying to herself, too. For a long time you wanted Bryon back. It felt like an achy, ugly thing, a bad bruise you wouldn't let heal. If she loves the youngest Curtis boy the way she thinks she does you don't know what she'll do.

She takes the joint. You say, _He's gonna get out of here, fuck anyone who's in the way._

_He ain't like that._

_He's a man_, you say. _What makes you think he's gonna save you._

_You sicced your guys on him for turning you down_, she drawls. She has her arms crossed behind her head. The picture of relaxation. _You sure you don't want him, too?_

_No_, you say. _I don't._ _I'm tired of men._

'_s why you're fucking me now, right?_ and she laughs a little crazily, like she's the only one in on the joke. _Tell me, anyone make you come the way I do?_

_Mind your business_, you say. You don't want the mask to crack. Maybe Bernal's a little funny, sometimes, and maybe she's good in the sack. Doesn't change the fact that you're not a queer, and that she's still stupid over Curtis, and that she was never quite your brother's girl.

_I like how you say 'ay'_, she says. _Reminds me you're a Spic like me._

_Learn summa your damn language, then_, you tell her.

She grins real wide, says, _I hear it's better down there than it is up here._

_Even in Chicago? _All she talks about is Chicago. It's enough to piss you off.

_I love Chicago_, she says. _Maybe I'll go there after graduation. Two years ain't that long._

_Suit yourself_, you say. Inhale again.

She says, _You know you don't gotta stay._

You look at her. She looks right back.

You exhale, say, _I'm Tulsa born and raised._

_I bet your mama said that about Mexico, too. You said Tim's planning something._

_Tim ain't my daddy_, you say, and the words hurt. Somehow it doesn't show on your face. _I ain't going nowhere. There's no point._

She reaches over for the joint again. Smooths your hair back first. _You don't gotta just be Angela Shepard, you know._

You're quiet for a long moment. Say, finally, _I used to think it was Ángela. That's all my mama ever calls me._

_It's pretty._

You say, _It's not good enough for Tulsa_, and get up to close the window. Say, _You heading home soon?_

_Yeah_, she says. Sits up. Legs for miles. You wonder what Curly saw when she was in his bed, what Curtis thinks when she's in his car waiting for him to look at her.

_I'll see you next week_, you say. Almost like a question. She smiles at you suddenly. Real big. Real pretty.

_Yeah, Angel_, she says_. I'll see you next week like always._


End file.
